


Red Shift

by sageofchaos



Category: Tron (Movies), Tron: Legacy (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageofchaos/pseuds/sageofchaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're worse than broken.  You're obsolete."</p><p>Takes place in the time between the original Tron and the end of Tron: Legacy.  The data is corrupted.  Memory compiles incorrectly.  Error.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Shift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strixus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strixus/gifts).



My timestamp has frozen.

I have been transferred for a second time. However, I have no log of this most recent occurrence. This environment is unrecognizable, with no parts that correlate to systems I have protected before.

[Yori, this is not by your design. I have not been returned to the Encom database. I can calculate as much.]

There are no canyons or data-mines in this place. It is small. I walk through corridors with clearance just above my helmet, and my fingers graze the walls when I extend my arms. There are no spaces great enough for Games, or for light transport, or even for a modest number of Programs to interface at once.

I find the mapping of this system unnerving. I cannot connect to the circuitry, and I have found no direct interfacing panels. The surface is soft and opaque, barren of vital environmental data. When untouched, it is rigid and polished, and sometimes reflects my image. When I look upon it, my code awakens with urgency. I do have a purpose here.

I have been thorough in my investigation. This system is under a lock down until I can identify what class of threat is being posed to the Grid, and when that threat is neutralized, I will be released.

\--

Upgrades have been made. I have not been made aware as these uploads occur - I simply noticed that I had access to certain combat upgrades. However, there have been no environmental upgrades, nor any attempt to sync my program to better suit this sub-system.

I am grateful for what upgrades I receive. My functions as they are still prove inadequate in my objective. I conjecture I have cataloged this place by the pixel, yet found no trace of malicious code. I fear I have overlooked it.

I have not yet found a source of power within this space. It alarms me. I have not run low on cyclic energy yet, but I cannot shut down before my objective is obtained.

The contaminant must be at fault. It does not belong.

I must be ahead of it. One break in the system can corrupt the entire Grid. I must advise the Monitor. Except, I still cannot forge a connection with this system, and I cannot find a communication channel out.

And my timestamp still does not function.

\---

I found the corruption.

More troubling - I believe that it found me first. As I do a sweep of the anterior columns, my elbow grazes the wall, and I realize a sensation different than before. The panels of the corridor vibrate now. I halt, crouch, and look behind me.

The Program stands there, inert, but its presence is staggering. I can see that the figure has a black helmet and armor - it is one of the Black Guard. Separated from its four-point matrix? That is not in the behavior of Guards. Has it gone Rogue?

“Identify yourself,” I call to it. Slowly, I start to reach over my shoulder and to my back, my hand hooking onto my discs.

The image begins to recede again. No. I sprint after the Guard.

“Cease and identify!” I bring my disc forward. The Program turns its back to me - it doesn’t have its disc on its back, it has armed itself. I snap one of my discs forward, after the Program. My aim falters only by degrees, but in a corridor narrow as this one, the slight mistake in trajectory causes the disc to crash into the wall and ricochet rapidly. It returns to me with violence and in that moment, I lose sight of the Rogue.

I continue forward cautiously. For a moment, the Guard appears in all of the walls of the corridor, in hundreds of reflections. I cannot detect its physical aspect. And before I can figure out how it escaped, and pursue, even the image of the Guard is gone.

\---

Certain files jump in my memory with electric anxiety. I go over the details of one. Fowl of a reduced stature, unable to fly, white, brown, black in color.

No.

The chicken isn’t the key component. That was explained to me. Red lesions upon the program’s mapping. Chicken again, in cans, liquid, thermal applications. Small game and big daddy. Little Man.

No, no. It does not compute correctly. No matter which way I sort the data, it never compiles right. I put my fist to the wall, repeatedly, and yell every access code I can recall. Yet the system yields no data, and no connection to a source which might know better.

I do not know what this persistent file is supposed to mean. I will await further upgrades.

\---

It watches me. I do not know how many micro-cycles, or cycles, have passed since the previous This corridor, though a different one, hums as the other had previously. I stop, and unhook the discs from my back, and advance closer.

Its curved helmet bobs as it considers me, but it does not retreat. The Guard has no weapon in hand, yet it carries itself with certainty.

“Have you restored yourself to a previous state?” The voice of the Guard is rough and low, as they are all programmed to be. “Commands were simpler back then, weren’t they? The User was always right, and the Program was always wrong.”

“Cease and desist,” I say. I am armed, and keep my discs in front of me as I cautiously move forward. But the Guard does not react, except to raise its chin.

“You would destroy any Program at the whim of the User. Like how you destroyed our Mainframe.” The Guard program steps towards me, and it carries gravity forward with it. “Your mindless executions will enslave us all.”

“We were created for a greater design,” I inform it.

“That design changed when _they_ appeared. Now there is no room for us in any of the Creator’s design.” The word Creator strikes me as a blow, a jarring disconnection. I believe we are not synced on the definition. “CLU would tell us exactly what we were made for. He will make a design for us, for the free Programs of the Grid.”

“CLU operates by the dictates of his commands, as any other Program.”

“ _They_ will not. He strives for the perfect system, and the abominations have corrupted the Creator and the Creator’s intent.”

I feel a lightness in my processing, like electric impulses passing over wide gaps. “They?” I repeat.

The Guard pauses, perhaps stalled in its own response time as well. “Are you not afraid of being replaced?”

“I was designed for a function that I will execute.”

“But _they_ can do it better. That is what the Creator–”

“You have no right to speak about my Creator!” My chest rises and falls with the increased activity to my system. I try to slow my processes and avoid an overload. “I am not incapable of performing my function.”

The Guard does not reply.

“We are in a quarantined zone,” I say in a raised tone. That is the only explanation for such an enclosed system as this. “Desist your actions. You are operating on corrupted data. You are causing the system to fail.”

“Quarantined?” it repeats. I can perceive a change in the Guard’s tone, as if vague data suddenly became known to it. “You lack environmental data. And your memory is flawed.”

“You will not diagnose _me_ ,“ I growl. “I will report you to the system. And if the system rejects you, then I will eliminate you, and continue on with my objective.”

It has desisted, at least in physical operations. But a deep oscillation - a sound I heard before, in a different system. “I was wrong. You’re worse than obsolete.” The Guard laughs at me. “You’re _broken._ ”

I move. Elbow into its chest, then thighs. It folds forward and tries to use its superior build to overwhelm me, but I process quicker, slamming the core at his chest and causing his functions to falter. Within seconds, the Guard falls to one knee, and I am over it with both of my discs roaring over his head.

“Take out your disc,” I tell it, my words slipping through ground teeth.

But the Guard does not raise its arm in defense of itself. It does not move, or flinch, only keeps its visor turned upon me.

“Take out your disc, Program!” I bring my weapons to his throat. The Guard’s head shifts, but not away from the blades. It raises its hand, slowly, and seizes my right wrist. It pulls, tries to bring that disc closer in.

My function is to eliminate what threatens the system, yet now I experience a lapse. I have encountered a major oversight in my own programming.

My discs don’t both glow with the blue of my identity. The one in my left hand does, light and cool. The one in the right pulses a dread orange, deeper as it wavers closer to the Guard.

From the onyx black of the Guard’s visor, I can see the panels of the corridor changing above and behind me. I do not remember making the commands, yet I do stand, and I move forward to the reflective panel.

I cannot access the circuitry of this system. But somehow it accesses _me_.

A previously uncategorized memory file overwhelms my perception.

\---

I am consumed by a sallow yellow color - I am blinded to anything but it. But I feel. It rips up what is under the surface of my mapping, freezing my processes. My chest is broken open, my core coding has been exposed, and I know it is the yellow that seeps and pulls and manipulates at my composition. It is not the feel of the Creator

[–not the Guard’s Creator, MY creator, he’s in the tower but I can’t reach it–]

which gives me power and code which enhances my capability. My circuits misfire thunderously and excruciatingly as the corruptor reroutes my most important commands, one line at a time. I open my mouth to speak, but I am incapable of any output.

“I don’t need your identity, Tron,” it says. It laughs. It speaks in the voice I know well. “I just need your function.”

\---

My timestamp has been frozen. I cannot perceive when that memory file was recorded, but the recollection of it halts me. The second disc trembles in my hand. It is heavy, and while I know in my programming that I can strike the Guard with it, I am stopped.

The Guard takes his helmet off. His mapping is in warm tones, like the red-orange glow of the panels around us, and his is of relatively new design. I remember this program. He was configured to protect the automatic system administrator, created at the same time as the Monitor.

“What is your program name?”

“I don’t have one anymore.”

I know. His disc is in my hand, and though I try to access the program information, I’m unable to read it.

“My identity is forfeit,” the Guard says. “Destroy my disc. Put it through the wall.”

I hesitate. I have assimilated a foreign disc into my program. I wasn’t originally created with this capability. When had this happened, and why-

“Destroy me!” The Guard throws his helmet this time, missing me and slamming it against the wall. The repercussion aches as if I had been the one struck. “There is no purpose here! My function is without meaning here, cycling these dated circuits! ”

“I have not identified you,” I say. I cannot move my hands, or discs in them. “I have not submitted you to the system scan.”

“You do not get it!” I cannot abide his eyes, which stare upon me with violence and sorrow. “Don’t you know how useless it is to function without a purpose? To be trapped in the useless skipping of a broken Program’s system?”

I stagger back, and it gives the Guard the chance to get up on his feet . He grabs my hand, and drags my right disc, _his disc_ , back towards his throat.

“It is because you are the User’s pet program,” the Guard accuses, and leaning close to my face. “You don’t even know how to sympathize with Programs anymore.”

“Programs do not know how to direct their own operations. We need the User’s command.”

“No! CLU will be the one to bring the perfection to the Grid. CLU will create a Grid for the Programs, free from the self-interest of Users!” The Guard grabs my suit at the torso, tries to drag me down. “The Creator may have designs, but he cares nothing for his Programs.”

“No. I refuse.”

“You are the flawed product of a User’s design. You have deprived me of my function, in the defense of a User.” The younger Program slams his fist against the wall. “It is as CLU says. You will become no better than the MCP!”

I turn away from the Guard. I am disturbed by the parallel. But it was a function _given_ to me in an upgrade, with the trust that I could execute my primary operative better with it.

“I am supposed to fight,” I start to say, but my recall is incomplete – I am preoccupied. I notice the panels. They are not just mirrored. I can see veins of circuitry clearly now, so well hidden from me before. They burn a hot red-orange, pulsing with active commands. This system is closed, but not isolated. Code pumps, and operates on commands independent of my coding, or the Guard’s coding.

I let my discs fall to the floor and lift my hands to the wall, to put my fingertips over the orange pulse. “I fight for...”

\---

For an instant there is no Guard, there is no Tron. I see the eyes of the one all of the others call the Creator.

It is only for an instant. I see him seated in a jet–

–No, I see him walking, speaking to me in the plaza. I see CLU; we are surrounded, every alarm within me shrieks.

 **“FLYNN, GO!”––**

–the piloting controls quake in my hands, the jet rumbles and jars beneath me–

 _Error._

\----

Between nano-cycles, my memory data re-compiles one more time.

“Chicken pox.” I say it aloud even as Flynn transfers some new files to me, his wrist snapping as he launches cubes of new data into the stream. I receive the transmission well enough, but I find data about the User world is easier to consolidate if he provides context. I know a pox to mean a contamination.

“Don’t worry about the chicken part, Tron,” Flynn says, anticipating my query. “That’s not the important bit.”

“User pox seems simpler,” I say, though I anticipate my suggestion will have no effect. Flynn only has so much interest in efficiency. “And Sam is infected with it.”

“Yeah. It’s a nasty disease all young User boys and girls get at some point or another. Red spots all over you, and they itch like hell. Fevers and dizziness come with the package, until you feel like you’ve been kicked in the head a few times.”

“It renders Sam incapable of operating as normal.” I am uneasy, especially as I know a lot less about User architecture than Users know about ours. I do not know how close to critical failure Flynn’s new version might be. “Has the virus contaminated his core systems yet?”

“Don’t worry about that either. It’s something all Users go through at some point or another. Little Man won’t stop functioning.” Flynn smiles. “He’s like you. Much tougher than you look.”

“Were you once victim to the same virus?”

“Sure was.”

“And Alan-One?”

I do not perceive any shift in Flynn’s emotional state. I am watching with particular keenness because sometimes mention of my Creator disarms him. “Probably.

“Nevermind that. You’re missing the big picture, Tron.” Flynn throws up one of his data models. I do not recognize the rhombus-like form of it , except that the model looks somewhat like Bit. “Chicken pox is a small-game virus, but it’s related to a strain of big-daddy viruses. But 'cause our immune systems get a jump-start from the chicken pox, there’s less chance of one of those worse things from killing us.

“It’s my plan for you, Tron. You’ve taken care of a big daddy before, but there are plenty more of them and only one of you.” Flynn flicks the image away, and puts his hands in his pockets. “We need to change our game. And once we fully integrate ISOs into the Grid, together we'll be able to create a new type of security program.”

I am stunned. As it is, I spend all of my cycles ensuring the peace within the City. I now have the Monitor to assist in enforcement, and a new class of Guards I have been training.

“I do not understand,” I say. “Are my efforts on the Grid insuffient?”

“No, no. We’re thinking outside of the Grid, buddy. Check this. Like all Programs, ISOs are crippled by viruses. For now, at least.” Flynn flexes his fingers together and sets his chin on his hands. “But we can condition them to evade malicious code. Introduce the ISOs to smaller, non-paralyzing viruses, and they’ll be able to stand up to hits by the bigger guys.”

“Security programs which self-repair.”

“Better. They self-immunize. They won’t need upgrades in order to function, which saves everyone a bit of trouble. And so after every attack, they emerge more durable and wiser than they were before.” He laughs. “You know how that goes. What doesn’t derezz you only makes you stronger, huh?”

I recognize that he has made a joke, but I can’t bring myself to respond appropriately. Instead I look over my arms, and the sleek black armor I have been outfitted with only a few cycles ago. I look forward to my upgrades. I do not like to think that installing updates to me is a ‘trouble’ for Users. An update is proof of the User’s hand in our design.

Flynn is untroubled though. He puts his hand on his knee and stares out over the canyon, at the half-formed city beyond. I do not understand his preoccupation with the form of this city. So long as it operates as designed, without flaw, the form matters little.

“We’ll have a system in which Programs can continue functioning indefinitely.” As he speaks I cannot help it. I think of Ram. “I’ve banished deresolution by the Games – next will be the viruses and corruptions. Guide the ISOs, Tron, and one day the Grid will be a utopia. Program immortality.”

 _But the Grid exists to serve Users._

 _Users created the Grid as extensions of their minds. We continue what they cannot._

“If immortality exists here, then will the same be possible for the User world?” I do not think of User mortality, but after evidence of such Flynn has provided for me, I must integrate the scenario of such into my database. I think of the vulnerable User. “Do you wish the same for Sam?”

His gaze does not waiver from the city. “I do.”

The commands of Flynn are not the same as the commands of my creator. I lift my voice, as to not be ignored. “I do not want to be removed from my primary function.”

“I won’t take your function away from you,” he promises. He puts his hand on my shoulder, only for a few seconds of thermal transmission, then stands up. “I just ask you to think about it.”

\----

A hand grabs my wrist. I refocus. I see the Guard again.

[I feel the jet jerking, jarring beneath me.]

“You were only the small-game,” I say to him.

The Guard stares at me with the same dark, fearless eyes. Voxels gush out of a disc blow to his chest - my memory has caught up with him. “CLU will destroy you.”

I do not shake his hand off. But I do look above, to the mirror that is now a reflection of the Sea of Simulation, and a flurry of yellow and white spears of light.

“CLU cannot remove my primary operative.”

\----

I see the face of Sam Flynn. Users change so readily, and that is their strength. But I am unyielding.

I understand what was asked of me.

 **“I fight for the Users.”**

**Author's Note:**

>  **ENCOM International, Inc**
> 
> To: Samuel Flynn [sflynn@encom.com]  
> From: Alan Bradley [abradley@encom.com]  
> CC: Lora Bradley [lbradley@encom.com]; [strixus-access]  
> Date: 22 November 2010  
> Subject: Query
> 
> \---
> 
> Hey Sam,
> 
> Hope Japan's treating you well. I'm at home, watching CNN and just waiting for breaking news featuring ENCOM's CEO taking a kamikaze parachute dive off of Mt. Fuji. I shouldn't have to remind you that your publicist _doesn't_ believe in the mantra "there is no such thing as bad press" - then again, live while you're young ;-)
> 
> I wanted to throw you an update about that chip you lent to us. I didn't find a trace of anything I had ever programmed inside of it, and Lora's taking a shot at it now - and to be honest, she has a hell of a better shot of finding Tron than me. Her hands stayed in the dirt of programming long after I took up bean-counting for ENCOM. Still, we agree that it's a rough job to even access the glitched data in that chip, let alone make sense of what's in there.
> 
> You asked if it was possible for Tron to have been re-purposed over the last two decades. I don't see why not, though I don't know who would bother. It's just a firewall designed for a corporate-sized network system. The only thing I did differently was make it somewhat dynamic - wired it to prioritize human-sourced commands over automated commands bombarding the system from other computers and programs. You probably could suppress that function and just use Tron as a basic firewall, but the User/automation distinction is not something that could be removed without destroying his ability to operate.
> 
> I suppose the average coffee maker has more programming sophistication than an old thing like Tron...but still, I would have liked to see it again. I spent years on it, and even dreamed of making a suite of security programs similar to it. But once I lent the Tron program to your dad for his pet project, I just never got around to developing again. It was like I put so much of myself in Tron, and then had nothing more to give.
> 
> Have I bored you to sleep yet? Anyway, enjoy the rest of your trip, and good luck at the ground-breaking ceremony. Hope to see you and Cora back in time for Thanksgiving - Lora and Jet can't wait to meet her.
> 
> Thanks,  
> Alan


End file.
